


Violent Pictures

by woakiees



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, F/M, Nightmares, PTSD, poor santi baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woakiees/pseuds/woakiees
Summary: “But they had been playing a game, toying with Santiago. What better way to hurt him than to hurt what he loved and cherished most?”
Relationships: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader
Kudos: 17





	Violent Pictures

Santiago didn’t have nightmares. He didn’t know what that said about himself, given everything he had seen and experienced throughout his career, but they just weren’t something that he went through all that often. **  
**

Not that he was complaining. No, not at all. He’d much rather sleep straight through the night than wake up sweating all over his sheets, heart racing and lungs struggling to pull in air as violent pictures danced through his head.

But sometimes he wondered if frequent nightmares would be better. Maybe he’d be better prepared for when one actually hit instead of feeling like he was falling deeper and deeper into his own mind, struggling to pull himself up afterwards. Maybe he’d be able to get a fucking grip on himself before he started to spiral, or maybe, if he did have them more often, they’d be worth going to therapy for and he could actually get some help.

He wasn’t against therapy, but Santi would feel stupid, sitting in front of a therapist and saying “Hey, I have gruesome, twisted, fucked up nightmares every once in a while and they really fuck with my head!”.

It was just impossible for him to convince himself to go. He didn’t struggle with his PTSD, he didn’t have depression or any of the other things his comrades dealt with on a day to day basis. His generalized anxiety was probably the worst of it, but again, he didn’t feel like that was worth weekly therapy sessions. He’d made it this far without them, hadn’t he? It was manageable, and didn’t hold him back from living his life.

And now, he had you. And you always made things better.

Except for his nightmares, apparently.

His first nightmare since the start of your nearly year long relationship, and it was about you.

Santi couldn’t get the damned images out of his head. You, bloodied and beaten and bruised, tied to a chair with tears streaming down dirty cheeks. You were begging. Begging for him, and for the pain being inflicted upon you to stop. Begging for your captors to just get it over with.

But they had been playing a game, toying with Santiago. What better way to hurt him than to hurt what he loved and cherished most? That’s all it had been to them — a sick game designed to torture him. And what made it even more fucked was the fact that his own mind had conjured up the entire thing.

It was so, so fucked.

He felt so completely fucked up, unable to believe that his subconscious could come up with something so horrendous. He’d seen some terrible, terrible shit, but nothing like that.

Or maybe it was just different because it was you instead of some person he didn’t know.

And while he knew that it was all just in his head, he had the very, _very_ strong urge to make sure that you were safe, and that you were back at your place tucked into your own bed with nothing but sweet dreams swirling through your mind.

Pope hauled himself out of bed, throwing the covers back from his sweat soaked body, looking for the nearest shirt he could find. It was cold out, but a plain black t-shirt would have to do. At least he was in sweats.

He slipped on his sneakers, not even worrying about socks, and practically jogged out to his car, starting it and throwing it into reverse. He was just glad that you lived fairly close to him, and he was there in a matter of minutes, obeying _most_ traffic laws on the way.

Santi knew a phone call would have sufficed, and again, he knew that there wasn’t any reason for him to think that you weren’t in your bed, safe and sound. Those men in his dream, he didn’t know them. There was no one out to get you, no one seeking revenge. You were safe. He knew that.

But he just had to see for himself.

He knocked on your door, making sure he did so loud enough for you to hear him, to pull you from your sleep. He waited, maybe ten seconds or so, before knocking again, another bout of panic starting to rise in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t thinking clearly — if he had been he knew it would’ve taken longer for you to get out of bed and answer the door.

The panic only intensified, and he was getting ready to bust the damn thing down when he heard the lock turning, and your tired, confused, but oh so beautiful face peered back at him through the small crack. You closed the door again, hastily undoing the chain — a habit he had instilled in you to keep you safe — before opening it all the way for him, ushering him inside your warm home.

“Santi, baby, what are you doing here? It’s 3am and fuck, you’re freezing.”

Your hands were running up and down his arms soothingly, your eyes scanning over his body, almost as if you were checking for some sort of injury. His heart swelled in his chest, the concern shining in your eyes making him feel beyond loved.

God, he loved you so much.

Santiago couldn’t verbally respond to your question, almost overwhelmed with the various emotions swirling through his head. All he could do was pull you flush against his chest and hug you so, so tightly, his grip completely vice like.

You stumbled back just a little bit from the force of his embrace, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise. You quickly regained your footing though, reaching behind him to swing the door shut before starting to lead him towards the couch. He stopped, letting go of you just long enough to slide the chain back into place and flip the deadbolt. You couldn’t stop the small smile that found its way onto your face — he always put your safety first.

Once you were sat on the couch, you wrapped your arms tightly around Santi, putting a hand on the back of his neck, guiding his head to your chest. The sound of your heart beating in his ear soothed him significantly, pulled him back down to reality. His chest felt lighter, lungs no longer feeling like there were small needles poking at the flesh between his muscles. And he was so, so warm — both from your body heat, his relief, and the soft blanket you were throwing around his shoulders. His favorite blanket, the one you always kept on the back of the couch for him. He sighed.

You didn’t ask any more questions, giving him the time he needed to ground himself. He appreciated it to no end, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to explain himself no matter how hard he tried. He just needed a moment to simply be with you, to feel you. To remind himself that you were safe and right there in front of him.

You would hold Santi for as long as he needed you to, trying to remind him of the same.

He’d been wrong. So completely wrong.

You did make his nightmares better.


End file.
